Chapters (75)
- Cover
- Back Cover Text
- Praise
- Booklist
- About the Author
- Dedication
- Quote
- Prologue
- Part One
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- Part Two
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- Part Three
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- Part Four
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- Part Five
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- Part Six
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- Part Seven
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- Part Eight
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- Part Nine
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- Part Ten
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- Part Eleven
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- Part Twelve
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- Part Thirteen
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- AUTHOR NOTE
- Reader’s Guide
- Questions for Discussion
- The Heirloom Garden
- Abby
Scooter leans across the blanket and kisses me. His tongue is ice-cold at first from the beer but it quickly turns hot, so hot that it seems to melt my mouth and then my heart.
“Oh!” I suddenly yell, looking down to find my glass of rosé in my lap and Scooter’s beer foaming and soaking my shorts. My heart is pounding, and I scan our surroundings, wondering what just happened. Finally, I see a football rolling to a stop next to us.
“Sorry!”
A kid jogs up, a University of Michigan hat on backward.
“My friend can’t pass at all,” he says.
I look at Scooter. “Show them how it’s done,” I say. “Show me that arm.”
A sheepish look crosses Scooter’s face. “Nah,” he says, grabbing the football off the blanket.
“You don’t have to leave everything in the past,” I say, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “It’s a part of you. Show ’em. Show me.”
Scooter beams, hops up and tells the kid, “Go long. Then cut in by the old pier over there.”
The kid turns and looks where Scooter has indicated before turning back around. “That’s, like, forty yards, mister. Got a cannon on you?”
“I do,” says Scooter. “Go long.”
The kid starts running, and Scooter sets his body, just like he did in high school. While the kid is still running straight down the beach, and yet to turn around, Scooter pulls his arm back and spirals the ball into the air. The kid cuts in at the pier and—when he turns—the ball is there waiting for him. The kid’s eyes grow even wider when the football drops into his arms while he’s still in full sprint.
“Holy crap!” the kid yells. “Are you a pro?”
“Scott Stevens!” I yell back. “Look him up.”
The kid runs over to his friend and starts pointing.
Without warning, Scooter picks me up into his arms and starts running toward the lake. He sprints in at full speed before we plunge into the chilly water. When I come up, water cascading off my face, Scooter is standing there, looking just like the boy I grew up with: handsome, confident, sweet, mischievous.
He pulls me into his arms and kisses me, our lips and bodies wet.
Music from a distant radio carries across the breeze, and I smile when I recognize the song: “Survivor” by Destiny’s Child.
Survivors, I think, as Scooter twirls me in the water, and the blue, blue sky spins overhead. Destiny, indeed.
FORTY-FOUR
“Are you sure, Mom?”
Evan is white-knuckling the steering wheel of the Adie Lou, while Sonny paces excitedly in the back seat, his tail thumping the leather.
I nod. “You got this.”
Sonny barks his support.